


The Shifting World

by synchronik



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a truth universally understood, but hardly acknowledged, that Angel Pagan is the best cuddler on the team, which is why Crawford angles to sit next to him on the flight back from New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shifting World

It is a truth universally understood, but hardly acknowledged, that Angel Pagan is the best cuddler on the team, which is why Crawford angles to sit next to him on the flight back from New York.

It's not easy, because of the cliques. There aren't many real problems between the guys on the team--Bochy has made it clear that bullshit beef won't be tolerated so most disagreements are handled quickly--but there are still cliques. Infielders and outfielders, pitchers and non-pitchers, starters and relievers, dominoes players and card players, the Southern contingent, and the Latin guys. And Brandon's cliques don't have a lot of overlap with Pagan's.

He could try to find a sleeping buddy in his own cliques, but there aren't a lot of options. A lot of guys don't cuddle for whatever reason. Bumgarner, for example, is already sprawled in his seat, head back, legs spread, Paul Bunyan at rest. Hunter Pence doesn't seem to sleep, ever. Casilla has a religious issue with it that Brandon thought at first was anti-gay, but turns out to be a complicated thing about hours for meditation and prayer.

The ones who will are a mixed bag. Lincecum is willing, but always ends up curled in a ball in the corner of the seat like a cat. Panik has been adopted by Duffy and it seems heartless to exercise veteran privilege and tear away a rook's security blanket, especially when the dude's already learning third base at the big league level. Affeldt never fucking shuts up. Posey's idea of cuddling is a firm hand on your shoulder. Belt snores.

Angel does none of those things. He's a still sleeper, and quiet, and he's a veteran so he doesn't care about teasing, and he usually smells good, if you don't mind cologne, which Brandon doesn't. So, Angel. 

The one hitch in that plan, though, is Romo. Romo who gave up the final run, who just happened to have a bad night when he needed to have a good night, and who is a close personal friend of Angel's. Romo definitely has dibs. 

And he's standing in the aisle ahead of Crawford, three or four rows in front of the one in which Angel is sitting. Romo has his head down and his headphones on. Brandon doesn't hear music, but the plane is noisy and it wouldn't matter if he did. What's he gonna say? "Hey, are you going to snuggle with Pagan?" 

It looks like the answer to that question is yes. Pagan actually reaches out as Romo walks by, his fingers brushing Romo's arm. Romo pauses.

"Vientete conmigo," Angel says. Brandon doesn't know what that means, even though he took Spanish for a couple of years in college. Fortunately, he doesn't need much Spanish to understand Romo's answer.

"No, gracias." Romo shakes his head and keeps on walking, heading to the back rows where the pitchers usually sit.

Brandon stops at the end of Pagan's row. This is the second test, whether Pagan will let him sit down at all. Brandon's not a rook anymore, but Pagan still has a veteran's prerogative to be left alone.

"¿Esta bien?" he asks, hoping that Spanish will earn points.

Pagan smiles and responds. Brandon catches the following words: _habla_ , _guapo_ , and his own name. But the expansive gesture Pagan makes is unmistakable. Brandon sits.

There's the normal shuffling and sorting, guys getting themselves situated. Belt punches him on the shoulder as he goes by. The flight attendant, a middle-aged woman named Janice who is employed by the team, comes by to remind everyone about seatbelts in English, Spanish, and Japanese. Brandon pulls out a magazine and pretends to read until finally, **finally** , they are in the air.

It takes seven minutes after the seat belt light goes off before Pagan leans over. Brandon has been reading the same story about basketball playoffs the entire time, wondering how long he should wait in between pages. "Hey, Crawford," Angel says.

Brandon looks up, trying not to seem too happy. "Yeah?"

Angel leans back into the corner of his seat, patting his chest. "You gonna sleep?"

"You mind?" Brandon asks.

"No, man. Echa pa' ca." He pats his chest again.

Now, Brandon smiles. "Cool," he says.

Part of the reason the Pagan is the best cuddler is because this is how he is. There's no bullshit tiptoeing around to make sure that no one's a homo--Pagan isn't gay, and doesn't care if you are or not--just a plain invitation.

Brandon glances behind him to make sure he's not going to bang someone in the head then reclines his seat as far back as it will go. Pagan does the same, then pushes up the armrest between them. The seats on the charter are deep and wide and recline like barca loungers. The team had wanted seats that went back like beds, but the would have needed a huge plane for that, so the management group had said no. At this moment, Brandon's almost grateful to them.

Pagan shifts so that he's propped in the far corner of his seat and puts one sock-clad foot on the cushion, so his legs are spread wide. He's wearing a white t-shirt with a deep V neck and jeans, and his position makes this look like a come on. Brandon thinks that if the guys who actually propositioned him ever looked as good as Angel, he might give one of them a chance.

Brandon pushes himself up on one knee, then lowers himself, until he's between Pagan's thighs, one arm between Pagan's body and the seat back curling around Pagan's ribs. He pulls his knees up, underneath Pagan's leg and rests his cheek on Pagan's chest. Angel shifts a bit, one hand on Brandon's back, the other in his bicep. "Good?" he asks.

"Mmm," Brandon says. Angel smells good, soap and cologne, and his heartbeat is strong and slow under Brandon's cheek and the palm he rests on Angel's pectoral. He feels his own heart slow in response.

Pagan's fingers move slowly over Brandon's sleeve. He doesn't make a sound beyond his breath and his heartbeat, but it feels like he's purring. This is the why Angel is the best, the pure animal pleasure that he takes in doing it. He's not being magnanimous, or tolerating you, putting up with you to be a good teammate or even a good friend. Angel is the best because he _likes_ it.

Brandon turns his nose toward Angel's throat, feeling the bare skin past the neckline of Angel's t-shirt against his cheek. He is almost overcome with the desire to kiss it. He settles for pressing his mouth there, closed, smelling the heat off of Angel's skin until he falls asleep.

* * *

Brandon wakes up as the plane banks, only half conscious of the shifting world, and realizes that sometime during the flight he and Angel have shifted, too. Not a lot, just enough that Brandon is fully splayed on top of him, cheek to chest, groin to groin. One of Angel's hands is in his hair. And one is on his thigh.

The plane moves, gravity pushing them together. Brandon feels his erection--morning wood, he thinks, just normal morning wood--against Angel, though he's not sure what's touching what. If he were in bed with someone, he would bump his hips against them again to figure it out, to let _them_ figure it out, but he's not. He's on a plane, basically in public, although Blanco seems to still be asleep across the aisle.  


Something clunks on the bottom of the plane (landing gear, although Brandon has a sudden image of all of the team's luggage falling into the sky, a rainstorm of suitcases, and pants, and Ryan Vogelsong's ugly shirts) and Angel inhales the breath of the re-conscious. For a second, his hand tightens on Brandon's thigh, pulling him snug against his shifting hips and what is definitely his own morning erection, and then he seems to realize where he is and what he's doing and his hand moves to Brandon's back. "Morning," Angel mumbles.  


Brandon makes some noise, he's not sure what. Angel caresses his scalp briefly, kisses his forehead, and shifts, a motion that says "get off me" as clearly as any words. Brandon gets off him. There's a shuffling around them on the plane, guys waking up, getting readjusted to the real world, that he and Angel add to. Brandon straightens his clothes, pulls his bag out from under the seat, rooting for gum in the side pocket.  


"You want some?" he asks. Angel is messing with the window shade, and the sun that bursts through the window is almost as bright as his smile.


End file.
